


A Temporary Madness

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-16 23:39:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guy who knelt next to him was tall, blond, and blue-eyed. He was a typical jock—ball shorts, a t-shirt with a hem ragged enough to expose a strip of tanned, smooth skin on which a drop of sweat ambled down to curve around his navel and…</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Temporary Madness

The people in those damn brochures who made it look all cool and arty to study outside had to have been paid a shit ton of money—it was a pain in the ass. The wind kept trying to flip the pages and the damn sun was casting an annoying glare off the page Sam was struggling to read. He was about evenly dived between boredom and blindness, squinting and tilting the page and getting a headache and finally he gave it up—reading was just not happening today. He was packing up his bookbag when a ball smacked him hard in the side of the head and toppled him sideways. _the FUCK?_

Stars briefly spangled his sight…followed by pain, and then shame for being caught out, embarrassment for being such a civilian. A breath later, all that was washed away under a hot wave of anger so thick and red it made him smile. His fingers scrabbled past his knee, he was thinking of the knife in his boot before the rage cleared and he remembered where he was, thank God before things got…unexplainable.

“Oh crap, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

“Get *off*.” Sam shoved away from square, grass stained hands, sweat damp and crazy warm against his skin. His throat clenched at the touch, swept with sense memory--and again when those hands jerked away from him like his skin burnt.

“Look, really, I’m sorry…”

Other voices jumbled in and around the soft voice, “Fuck him, dude, leave the geek alone,” and “kick his ass and let’s go,” and “that kid’s an asshole, man,” and Sam remembered the golden rule: don't stand out, don’t be noticed. Of course, that was harder to do now that he's gotten taller. Dean would, Dean would….

Yeah, Dean wasn't around, so.

Sam glared at the jerk who'd winged the ball into his face. He kept his hand from his burning cheek through sheer stubbornness, damn thing throbbed with his heartbeat and was probably bright red—it was going to bruise for sure, by the way it felt it was going to be kind of spectacular. That thought faded as he found himself eye to eye with a…a cliché.

The guy who knelt next to him was tall, blond, and blue-eyed. He was a typical jock—ball shorts, a t-shirt with a hem ragged enough to expose a strip of tanned, smooth skin on which a drop of sweat ambled down to curve around his navel and.

Sam blinked. That strip of tan occupied his whole mind for a long baffling minute…too long. It was…weird. A little scary. "Fine, I'm fine—let it go."

The guy surged to his feet smooth and slick, it reminded him of Dean. He glared down at Sam and said, "I was trying to apologize but I guess there’s no point here, is there?" He looked pissed off even though it'd been his fault, and that reminded him of Dean too. Sam felt homesickness roil through his gut.

Jock guy scooped up the ball and stalked off, broad shoulders swinging, and thick muscles in his legs bunching…long and tan legs, like Dean’s haven’t been since he was a kid and decided shorts were for girls and pussies. Blond, tall, tan, and not a god damn thing like his brother so why was he flashing on him constantly?

The guy disappeared into the crowd and Sam felt a spike of loneliness, so hot and sudden it made his eyes swim. Fuck, he might as well admit it, he missed his family. Much as they drove him crazy and didn't let him breathe and scared the shit out of him…he missed them almost as much as they pissed him off. Sam quietly and desperately hated that without them, he had no one who'd care whether he slept through the night or not. Sam sighed, stretched his shoulders, grabbed his bag and stood. Today was one day down, tomorrow will be another.

  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/askellington/pic/00006brd/)   


This weird, constant sneaking sensation of wrong and relief and curiosity made him feel sort of guilty, somewhat unsettled, but also felt more right than anything had ever felt in his life.

Using his textbook as an elbow support, balancing what he actually was reading against the table, Sam drew his straw through a sugar-heavy cup of iced coffee, twirling cream through it, vaguely watching the patterns made and thinking. Hard. About life--his, to be precise--the fucked-upness of it in particular.

Sam's deepest, darkest, stomach-turning secret was the one that liked to surface right before he fell asleep and taunt him with his freakishness. It ambushed him at his most relaxed, at any point he started to feel—normal. His secret that he held to himself like an awful friend he just couldn't ditch…he had no idea what to label it. Crush? Too…innocent. Obsession? Maybe not strong enough. Disease…? Something close to it.

It was some sort of awful mental glitch, this thing he had for his brother. Wanting to look, to touch. To know what his skin tasted like and what his hands felt like when they _wanted_ to touch and…Dean was his life. He pushed his way into every thought Sam had. Sam took a breath and Dean exhaled and that was one reason why he'd had to get the fuck *out*, get away from—all of it. Dad, the business, Dean, and his sick, sick self.

And now there was this…guy, and for the first time ever he found himself wondering about another guy sort of the same way he'd wondered about Dean. And God, this thing he was getting for Jock Guy made him feel _normal._ This at least made sense in a way that was just so much-- _saner_ than desperately lusting after his brother, for fuck's sake. Gave him a reason for all that wanting…it wasn't Dean, never had been, it was just proximity. Yeah. And now he was free to do and think what he wanted, and he was thinking about Jock Guy. Who was fucking gorgeous. Sam exhaled, laughing, feeling lighter because he was letting himself—finally—tell the truth. Girls were wonderful, they were great, but something in him was stretching, trying to break free. That guy he didn't even know, he had hooks in Sam and was pulling him out of true. Or pulling him in the direction he was meant to go at last…Sam sighed. Maybe.

There was just that one little hitch…more of a big fucking fly doing the backstroke in his ointment….

This hot guy was more than likely straight, and definitely Mr. Popular, ergo Sam stood not a chance in hell. Maybe being popular didn’t bring with it quite the same back-biting viciousness that it had in high school, still there was a subtle—mostly subtle—air of _you just don’t belong_ projected whenever these gods and goddesses deigned to notice ordinary mortals like himself. Sam was where he always was, by design, by nature…hidden in the back of the pack.

It wasn't that this world truth bothered Sam all that much. In fact, he could almost honestly say he did not give a shit. It was why God gave him a hand and access to good lube and kleenix. He did not give a flying fuck if he evolved a hyper-muscled right hand. Besides, he’d just switch up, to even it out…he snickered softly to himself at the image.

“Something funny?”

Sam looked up and Jock Guy was looking down at him, a little half smile, or maybe a smirk, aimed at him. The straw in Sam's hand crimped, twisted and sprayed his shirt with cold coffee. "Shit…."

What happened next went against the rules of the world as Sam knew them. Instead of sneering and walking away, JG handed him a napkin, with a barely smothered chuckle. Said, "So, you telling yourself jokes? Sanity run in your family?"

"You mean insanity—um, right. I like to keep myself busy." The smirk flowered into an outright smile now, and Sam was fighting to hold his own smile back.

"I see that. So…" JG leaned over and read the book's title aloud. “ _American Gods?_ You read this kind of stuff a lot? You a writer?"

Sam shook his head. "Not a writer, I just read "the stuff," and hey, way to sound condescending."

Jock Guy held up his hands. "I don’t mean it that way, dude. Sorry. You look, you know, creative—artsy."

Sam laughed. "Artsy? Yeah, not so much," he said. "I'm thinking about law…at the 'beginning to think about it' stage. What about you, sports scholarship, right?" Sam wanted to make it sound like an insult but he just sounded faintly envious, possibly admiring.

"God no," JG shuddered. So, not Jock Guy, then. Sam figured he’d have to come up with  
another nickname….

"No, that’s not me. The plan is to become a doctor…we're all doctors, sort of the family business," he laughed, his eyes fixed on his hands, like he'd just confessed to something embarrassing.

A sharp jab of nausea made Sam press the heel of his hand against his belly. He made himself nod. "Yeah, well. That’s cool. So the ball thing? Just playing, or working your way up to doctor slash ninja assassin? You might want to work on the ninja part…" Sam blushed. It was like his mouth had hijacked his brain and would not stop. He felt better when JG laughed out loud.

"Just goofing off with a couple of friends, some of whom are jocks," he said, laughing at Sam’s blush. "And some who're just crazy ass friends of mine. None of us are studying to be assassins…sorry." He rocked back on his heels and Sam liked that until he realized he liked it because it was a thing Dean did.

The guy's smile dimmed a bit—almost as if he sensed Sam's sudden shift in mood. He shrugged and said in an off-hand way, "Speaking of friends, some of us are cooking out this weekend. If you don’t have anything better to do, you should come. Let me make up for—you know, knocking your brains loose. Looser. Bring your girl."

"I’m not. I’m not going with anyone right now."

"Free agent," the blond grinned, and again, it was so familiar Sam almost hated it. "More fun for you. Okay, see you Saturday then, uh…?"

Sam stared, wondering why he’d hesitated…"Oh! Sam." He blushed. "Sam, that's me."

"That's you, hunh? Cool. Brady.” He held his hand out and Sam shook it twice and dropped it. "See you this weekend, Sam."

  
It turned out to be a better time than Sam thought it would. Brady and his friends grilled; there was beer, and football with incomprehensible rules, and lots of ridiculously good looking girls. Sam nursed a lone beer, and held a plate of food on his knees. He watched Brady and tried not to be too obvious about it. He looked…good. Brady was friendly, outgoing, nice to everyone. He had a great smile, and the way he leaned over to speak to people, eyes locked on theirs…Sam watched and took it all in.

Brady was nothing like Dean, except in the tiny ways that he was. Thank God, he didn't look anything like Dean, because that would be…unbearable.

  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/askellington/pic/00006brd/)   


"So…a bunch of the guys are headed to the beach this Saturday. You busy?" Brady handed Sam a coffee, just like he'd done almost every day for the last two weeks—heavy on sugar and cream, just like Sam liked it, not that he'd ever told Brady how he liked his coffee. Sam'd stopped offering to pay after about the fourth time Brady slapped the back of his head hard enough to make him see little cartoon birds.

Brady dropped down onto the wooden bench next to him, stretched legs that were almost as long as his out in front of him, slipped his sandals off and dug his toes into the grass. "Well, what do you think? We going?" He took a long, loud, gargly gulp of coffee, just like Dean would have done and opened his eyes wide in his 'what?' look, waiting for Sam.

Sam looked at Brady. Took in his lopsided smile, the funny dip of his nose, the way the sun made his hair glow almost white, and his blue, blue eyes. This guy…they'd been to the movies, been to dozens of bars, hung out with Brady's friends, hung out alone, hung out while eating dinner together or at least in the same place…lots of invitations that started "so and so invited us", or "we're supposed to come to this party", or "we're expected here"…Sam's eyes opened wide; he flushed from his toes to his cheeks.

"I kind of feel like…we're dating?" he asked, ready to make a joke of it if he had to. Or dodge.

"What?" Brady's face went as red as Sam's felt; Sam drew in his legs and tensed. Shit. Miscalculation—he was sure of it when Brady went on to say, "What kind of crazy is that? We're just friends. Just…good friends, Sammy."

"Joking, Christ, it was just a joke. And don’t call me that," his voice dying from outrage to embarrassed mumble. He felt a little like throwing up and a lot like the biggest asshole ever. Dean would die laughing if he were here; he'd laugh himself sick at his little brother making a gigantic fool of himself.

"Yeah. Sure. I got it was a joke." Brady stood; jerky movements sloshing coffee around as he shoved his feet back into his sandals and then just like that seemed to deflate. He dropped back down next to Sam and sighed. "God. Yes, I was trying to date you without…you know, actually telling you I was dating you."

"Like what, stealth dating? Really? What idiot does that?" Sam laughed, a wild, happy excitement bubbling through him. He thought he deserved a little teasing considering. "What are you, like a ninja dater? And smooth, by the way."

"Okay so I'm less like a ninja, more like an idiot I guess. But…you seem more amused than pissed off. Does this mean you're okay with the idea? Or just afraid I can take you if you throw punches?"

"Yes--and no fucking way. And if we're being honest and sharing, I kinda like the idea." Sam felt like he was being too bold, though Brady seemed to like it. Sam smiled back. Apparently he'd been dating the guy for more than a month, and they hadn't so much as held hands. Touched in any way, actually. So…should he? Would it be an okay thing to do--because he'd like to. He'd like to touch Brady a lot.

"Now that we're on the same page, can we move on from here and do…date-type things."

Sam wondered what Brady considered to be date things…would it involve sex? Because if so, he was nervous about that but willing to try. He wondered what it would be like with a guy. What if he couldn't? What if Brady expected more, faster than Sam was ready for or wanted more than he could give, what if….

"--movie, and maybe dinner but better this time because we know…and um. How old are you?"

"Twenty. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Keep up with me here, Sammy--planning our date. So, no bars. Fuck, we've got to get you an ID. I've got a sweet—" he stopped and gaped at the perfect ID Sam tossed on the table, declaring him to be twenty one.

"Damn…that's…that's excellent. Why do you have such a good ID?"

"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

Sam was amused as he said it and not in the slightest bit aware that coming out of his mouth, it didn't really sound like a joke. He was a little confused when Brady shoved the ID back quickly and stammered, "Yeah, okay, so, there's a place not far off campus, very friendly, mixed crowd. You wanna go?"

"Sure, sounds like fun. I guess."

And that's how Sam ended up in a gay bar, making a fool of himself on the dance floor with a guy he'd just found out he was dating and wondered if that made him his boyfriend.

"Ah…wanna get off the floor?"

Sam gratefully let Brady pull him into a private booth, sparing them both further embarrassment. His dance moves were at best the death throes of an arthritic chicken mated with spastic giraffe—at least that's what he told Brady, who laughed loud and hard. Sam gulped his drink, caught by the arch of Brady's neck. He looked damn good—he made sweat look sexy.

Brady took a breath and asked, "Hey, can I do this?" and touched two fingers to the back of Sam's head, brought him closer with a barely there pressure, giving Sam lots and lots of room to pull back, pull away. "Have you ever…." he stopped and chuckled softly. "No, you haven't, have you?"

Sam found himself drifting closer, until Brady's mouth was a breath away, all he'd have to do is exhale and their lips would touch. Sam closed his eyes and waited. The first touch was like feathers, soft as a whisper of air but it sent jolts right through him—straight to his dick. Brady pressed, a little more and little more until Sam's mouth gave way under the steady, gentle pressure. He started a bit at the brush of Brady's tongue against his upper lip, velvet, wet, warm…and then it was like other kisses he'd had before, only this kiss, he really, really wanted. He opened to it, and to Brady. They slid against each other until they clicked like Legos--a perfect fit.

He only thought of Dean once and that was when Brady cupped his cheek and whispered _"baby"_ in his ear.

  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/askellington/pic/00006brd/)   


That year, there were a lot of firsts. Sam had a boyfriend. Sam had friends. Sam was happy. Sam wished Brady didn't have so many female friends; especially the blonde Sam tried to avoid. Something about her made him uncomfortable. He had these dreams sometimes--fire and long blonde hair and big shocked eyes, maybe blood too. They were about his mother, had to be—had them on and off over the years ever since Dean had told him the truth about his mom. Since coming to Stanford, he'd had them more often and—something about that girl's hair made him think of those horrible dreams, long blonde curls darkening, flying away in a drift of gray ash….

…'course, if he was being perfectly honest with himself, there was also a thing called jealousy that raised its head at inconvenient times. He'd always had a problem with that—in fact; since he was fucking unlikely to ever cross path with his family again, he could admit that part of his problem with Dad had been jealousy—wanting to have Dean all to himself. Here he was wishing for Brady all to himself. The more things changed, he snorted.

"I smell giant brain working overtime," and a paperback came flying through his doorway, narrowly missing his head.

Brady followed up the book, but he didn't miss. He landed on Sam with a victory bellow and the sound of cracking wood.

"Shit—Brady! The bed can't take the both of us, get off." He was sure the whole floor heard them but right now, with Brady grinning down on him, Sam couldn't remember a worthwhile reason for caring.

"Oh no, I've been thinking about this all…day…long…" Brady slid his hands under Sam's shirt—and Sam was lost. He loved the touch of Brady's hands, so sure and firm. Competent. All he ever wanted was for Brady to keep touching him until he couldn't think of anyone or anything else but what his boyfriend was doing to him. Brady's hands were clever and quick—Sam's shorts were around his knees in the blink of an eye, and instead of his usual teasing, Brady slid right down his body and took Sam's dick into his mouth. Sam gasped, stiffened, and moaned in astonished pleasure. He loved getting head almost as much as he loved giving head. Which, yeah, that had been a surprise—the giving it, no one complained about getting it—he'd had no idea how hot it'd be to make someone come apart like that, with just his mouth, like Brady was using his—

"Oh shit, Brady—" Both hands were sunk deep in Brady's hair, yanked and the moan that pulled out of him vibrated along Sam's dick and punched his hips upward. He made the inside of Brady's mouth hotter and slicker, made himself closer to coming listening to Brady's wet, greedy little snuffles, the bed creaking faster and faster as Brady rocked his hips into the mattress.

Not Sam's fault that imagining green eyes and a pink mouth stretched around his dick sent him over the edge like that. Not his fault, nothing wrong with fantasies, nothing wrong if it was never going to happen….

  
Then came Thanksgiving, and everything went to hell.

  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/askellington/pic/00006brd/)   


It took Brady almost an hour to wish Sam good-bye—they got as far as the door four times before Brady actually went through it. He called Sam from the airport to let him know he was just about to catch his flight, then segued into lots of embarrassing kissy noises and vows of more sex than he could stand, something Sam found doubtful…it was a good phone call and it ended too soon for the both of them. They hung up on Brady's promises to call, soon and often.

Thanksgiving Day, Sam spent holed up in his dorm room alone, eating a turkey with cranberry sub, waiting for a call that never came, not Brady, and certainly not Dean. He sat curled over himself on the bed, scrolling back and forth over his contact list and trying to figure if he had the guts to call the person he really wanted to hear from.

  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/askellington/pic/00006brd/)   


"I've been thinking…" Brady said, and followed that up with, "…we need to talk."

Two weeks without a call and a day before he was supposed to return, he finally…Sam wondered if he could pretend he hadn't gotten a call at all. _We need to talk._ That phrase was rarely the intro to anything good. He remembered Dean's face when he finished up his own "we need to talk" speech. Brady, though…they were good together. They were building something good between them, whatever Brady wanted to talk about, it couldn't be bad….

When Brady at last appeared in Sam's room, he was loud, seemed stoned, and was kind of mean, and that was something Sam had never seen before. There was something different in his eyes, something Sam couldn't quite pin down but made him wish he was elsewhere….

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy…you been sitting here all by yourself? Waiting for me?" He gripped Sam's collar in his fingers and yanked him close--kissed him, hard, just a shade away from being painful. He shoved his tongue into Sam's mouth like he was fucking it—pushed Sam away and ripped his shirt off so fast, it burned where it caught Sam's ears. He was strong, stronger than Sam remembered him being.

"Come on, Sam. Look what you do to me. Don’t you want to take care of me? I missed you…" He gave Sam a loose, lop-sided grin and Sam's head was full of Dean coming home, stinking of booze and pussy and smiling just that smile… _shoulda been there Sammy, shoulda seen, couldn't get enough of me…._

Brady cupped his erection, stroked himself through his jeans. "Sammy, come on," he whined and Sam couldn't refuse Brady, hoped he'd…get sober, get nicer, whatever. He took his pants off, boxers and socks dropping to the floor as Brady watched, grinned and grinned until Sam looked away. He'd never felt naked before with Brady, never so exposed. Brady treated it like a joke.

"Aww, Sammy, whatya, embarrassed? Shy little virgin. Well, not so virginal anymore, hunh?" He dropped his pants and gripped his dick. "Not after this." He crawled between Sam's legs. "Gimme, Sam, show me you want it, come on. Lemme fuck you."

Sam made reasons in his minds, excuses--something bad happened and Brady needed comfort but this…he wasn't sure this was it. Brady flipped Sam like it was easy, shoved his face into the pillow. His hands were hard; he barely prepped him, paid no attention when Sam begged him slow down, to be careful, it hurts….

It didn't feel like sex, it was rough and bad and…there had to be a reason for Brady's behavior and Sam couldn't, didn't want to fight back. No way Brady could hurt him as much as he could hurt Brady, so he just…let him do what he wanted. He'd fix it later. After all, their first lessons, Dean's and his, had been in how to take a hit and keep on going and this wasn't really ant worse.

Still, some time after Sam had cried--a little--but not in front of Brady, never. He never told anyone about that night, or other nights after.

  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/askellington/pic/00006brd/)   


"Brady. Talk to me. You tell me what's going on, damn it, or I'm walking away. I'll—I'll go back home, I'll call—I'll call my brother and—"

"No! No, Sam, please. Let me explain, all right? Something happened over the break…this thing that made me realize everything I thought I knew about life was wrong. It's why I decided I need to be me, y'know? Not what everyone expected me to be. My parents…took it bad. I'm kind of on my own now," he laughed, a broken, sinking sound that made Sam take him in his arms, and promise to help him, forgave him everything because people in love didn't run away from each other when the going got a little rough.

Which turned out to be a bit of an understatement.

It was hard to forgive and forget, Sam thought, when you catch your boyfriend fucking someone in your bed. Someone. Sam laughed. A girl. Just like old times, and so familiar he could go through it by rote.

 _"It was a mistake. She took advantage. We were messed up, it was stupid of me."_ and a dozen other things were said, until Sam thought maybe he'd been mistaken, maybe he had misread everything and Brady was right, he was too possessive, holding on too tight. He'd suspected it about himself more than once, before…before all this.

  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/askellington/pic/00006brd/)   


"Sam, this here's Jessica. You remember her, don’t you?"

" Sure." Of course Sam did—she was the one, the girl with the hair, the girl always in the middle of the party, looking surprised to be there, and hoping no one noticed, sad that no one did. It took a while to figure out that that look had been aimed at him. He'd kept her at arms length then but things were different now. Brady needed help, and Sam needed help to help him. Jessica became a very good friend….

It got exquisitely worse. Sam asked himself over and over, how did you stop a person determined to tank everything they had had going for them? Brady was on a rocket to the bottom and seemed to be loving every second of the ride. Didn't matter, Sam dug in and tried to keep him from going over the edge, Sam and his friends. Jessica kept him from going over with Brady more than once. He felt guilty for using her the way he did, but he was only human, and needed some comfort too. He didn't have time to worry about her heart, not with the damage his was getting.

All through the years, all his life, Sam had seen himself a certain way. Hopeful, stubborn, basically decent, but never an idiot. He was beginning to wonder about that. Maybe his problem was not letting go of hope. Maybe Jessica was right… he'd hung on to shreds of hope way past the point he should have...but he loved Brady.

  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/askellington/pic/00006brd/)   


"Listen. You're great—you really are. And you know it's not you, right, it's totally me, and my issues. I…I think it's time that we put this thing between us in the past."

Which really shouldn't have been as shocking as it was, because nothing he touched ever turned out right. Something that he'd forgotten even when times where hard—it was just. Now that things were better and they'd pulled Brady back from whatever hell he'd been in…it was a kick in the teeth, is what it was.

And his timing. His timing was great—blowjob first and then personal confession time, how this thing between them wasn't working out and besides, they weren't _really_ gay any way, and it was all starting to turn his stomach, but not, Sam thought, enough to refuse head, and anyway that's why he'd been so fucked up and he was just so very, very, very sorry, he was…about _everything._

Sam just figured he was just getting what he deserved.

It wasn't as bad as it could have been. Jessica was there, had long since become his safety net, she covered him with the shield of her kindness. Without Brady, suddenly it was easier to see, really see, Jessica. He saw how quick and funny, brilliant and sweet she was. He thought maybe he could love Jessica, and after a while he did, and it seemed natural as breathing. He loved her for her loyalty, her heart. He loved her because there wasn't a god damn thing about her that reminded him of his brother.

  
Sometimes Sam thought that it was a punishment that Brady and he were still friends, maybe they were friends because he didn't know how not to be. Or maybe the punishment was knowing that what he'd had with Brady, had mostly been the story of Sam and Dean.

  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/askellington/pic/00006brd/)   


"Hey…you okay? You look a little wrung out." Jessica leaned over the bed, dropping her scarf on the floor, her coat. "It's windy out there. Sucks you get to sleep in late today. I had to be in class at dawn!"

Sam pulled her down and hissed when she shoved her cold hands under his t-shirt. "So get under the covers with me, let me warm you up."

"Hey, really, are you okay? You look kind of…stressed." Sam saw the shadows in her eyes, worry that looked too familiar.

"Nah, seriously, I'm good. Just had a bad dream is all." He glanced away from her, so she wouldn't see the fear he felt, irrational fear. It was just a dream after all, no matter how crummy it'd been.

"We don't have to go to this party tonight; it's really okay if we don't."

"And miss you in the naughty nurse outfit? Hell no."

2-11-2011


End file.
